


Three Wise Men (and one Ingrid)

by MadameHyde



Series: Stand With Me Now [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Felix Fraldarius is bad at feelings, Past Child Abuse, There was a severe lack of drunken shenanigans around here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 00:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHyde/pseuds/MadameHyde
Summary: When the world is falling apart, sometimes all you can do is throw up your hands and go find your friends.Or, Claude von Riegan decides to throw a party when the Blue Lions get back from dealing with Miklan's bandits, and in the only way it can, everything goes sideways





	Three Wise Men (and one Ingrid)

By the skin of their teeth, the Blue Lions crushed the bandits at the Black Tower.

Unfortunately, they then had no skin with which to avoid the inevitable party that Claude threw upon their return to Garreg Mach. How the Leicester heir managed to procure a keg and keep Seteth occupied for the evening was beyond everyone else. 

Which was how Felix came to be hunched over a tankard of warm beer in the corner of the dining hall. Claude and Hilda had managed to trick most of the faculty into thinking this party was far more innocent than it was, what with their cheery streamers, somewhat thought-out appetizers, and tablecloths procured from _somewhere. _Felix could practically _hear_ Claude talking to Professor Manuela, _We just want to show them we’re proud, yeah? Plus everyone could use a little pick-me-up, and the winter ball isn’t for a few months yet…_

Felix had never been one for parties. There were usually too many people and twice as many stupid deicisions for him to feel remotely comfortable. If he could have avoided the dining hall and still eaten dinner, he would have. But Sylvain had dragged him back inside by the collar of his armor when Felix had tried to leave, and Ingrid had scolded him about it being okay to take a rest and suddenly Felix found himself outmaneuvered.

It rankled at him.

And then, Sylvain had gone and disappeared somewhere an hour ago, whereas Ingrid was dancing with Annette, Mercedes, and Dorothea, who had insisted on teaching everyone some of the most fashionable dances from Enbarr and wouldn’t book no for an answer. Felix had made sure to steer clear of the vile woman, having reached his quota for dealing with people several hours ago. Bernadetta was playing her violin to accompany them, and Felix felt oddly proud that the recluse was even here. 

Maybe he could leave now? He’d had a drink and talked with people who weren’t Ingrid, Sylvain, or the professor. Surely no one (read: Sylvain) would notice if he slipped out the door?

Tragically for Felix, Ingrid chose that exact moment to reappear.

“Felix, I need your help with something,” she said without preamble

Ingrid barely wasted time for formalities on a good day. It was one of the reasons Felix liked her. “Did Sylvain get himself shoved in the pond by an angry boyfriend again?”

Ingrid heaved the heavy, put-upon sigh of the Sylvain-wrangler. “I wish it were that easy. Come on.”

Grumbling, Felix got to his feet and fell in step beside the pegasus knight. They made it about halfway across the room before Felix spotted the problem.

Drunk Sylvain was ruddy-faced and handsy, as a general rule, but he was also very, _very _stupid. And therefore easily goaded into things such as making out with barmaids, insulting said barmaids’ boyfriends, and, most importantly, drinking games.

Which was how they came to find Sylvain sitting at one of the dining tables tables, across from Claude, Hilda, and Raphael. Claude looked like he was puzzling something out, and Hilda looked positively bored. 

“Ingrid!” Sylvain shouted, hands going up excitedly. “Felix! You’re just in time!”

“No,” said Ingrid.

“What game are you playing?” Felix asked, curiosity burning.

He’d forgotten, sometimes Ingrid’s heavy sigh was of the Felix-wrangler, too. “Felix, _no!” _

“Three Wise Men,” Sylvain said brightly.

Felix studied Sylvain for a moment, looked to Claude and his Golden Deer, and then back to Ingrid. She was furiously shaking her head, eyes lit with fire. It felt like a punch to the gut, and he had to look away. 

Stony-faced as ever, Felix swung one leg over the bench--

“Don’t you dare, Felix Fraldarius!” Ingrid said.

\--and then the other, seating himself to Sylvain’s left.

“Hey, buddy!” the cavalier said brightly, clapping Felix so hard on the shoulder the latter’s whole body shook. “I need your help with something.”

“I know.” Felix shoved Sylvain’s hand off his bruised shoulder. “You can’t close to save your life.”

“I can’t open, either,” Sylvain said, and then looked to Ingrid with (what he hoped) were his sweetest, most innocent puppy-dog eyes.

Ingrid harrumphed and then seated herself to Sylvain’s right. 

Claude was positively _beaming. _“So Sylvain’s been explaining the rules, and it seems… very Faerghus.”

“Three Wise Men isn’t meant to do anything but get you drunk,” Ingrid said, disdain coloring her words.

Claude winked at her, and Felix felt a headache start coming on. “Capital,” said the archer. “That’s what we’re here for.”

That was the moment that Ashe and Ignatz appeared, each carrying three tankards of ale. They set all six in the middle of the table, and then made themselves background characters, integrating into the gathering crowd.

“So, do we just… go?” Hilda asked, eyeing the tankards.

“We need a judge first,” Felix said flatly, only to cringe when Sylvain shouted “_DIMITRI!” _somewhere too close to the vicinity of his ear.

The boar prince waved from over near the dance floor, said something to Dorothea with a little bow (she blushed), and then made his way over to their table. “Ah,” he said, “playing a friendly game of Three Wise Men?”

“No such thing,” Felix spat, and Ingrid and Sylvain laughed.

“Will you be our judge, o wise one?” Sylvain asked.

“Please talk them out of this,” Ingird immediately followed up with.

But Dimitri was grinning. It was uncomfortably tight, but even Felix knew he was _trying _to be genuine. “It would be my honor as your future king.”

Ingrid let off a third, very-much-done-with-boys sigh.

Dimitri came to the edge of the table to hover over the proceedings. “Ingrid, would you kindly do the honors?”

Ingrid took a tankard from the middle of the table, and nodded for Raphael to do the same. She then raised it to the level of her eyes, announced “On my honor as a knight!” and then proceeded to drink, Raphael right behind her. He was far faster than she, but then, that was why Ingrid was always their opener.

“Hey Raphael,” Sylvain said, a wicked grin spreading across his ruddy face, “do you think your little sister has a boyfriend yet? Have you met him? Is he like me?”

Raphael made a crude hand gesture toward Sylvain without setting down his tankard.

“That’s dirty!” Hilda accused.

Claude laughed. “I like it!”

“Can you even do that?” the pink-haired noble continued, giving her future Lord a huge shove.

“All’s fair in love and Three Wise Men,” Dimitri said sagely.

Raphael slammed his tankard down another moment later, his breathing heavy. Hilda barely waited for him to finish the motion before scooping up a second tankard from the middle of the table and pouring the liquid down her throat.

Ingrid finished a moment later, slamming her tankard down and taking huge, gulping breaths. Sylvain snatched a tankard from the center and upended it with both hands, taking noisy gulps as he went.

“Hey, Hilda,” Ingrid said, her face rosy from drink, “I hear your older brother is_ super _dreamy.”

Hilda laughed, coughing out some ale as she did so. She quickly waved Ingrid off and continued chugging.

“Is that the best you could come up with?” Felix bit off, leaning around Sylvain to look Ingrid in the face.

Ingrid flushed redder; it made his chest feel oddly tight. “I don’t hear _you_ coming up with anything!”

This time it was Sylvain who cough-laughed, spilling ale down the front of his uniform shirt in the process.

“Tied again,” Dimitri announced, taking a sip from his own tankard. Dedue had appeared at his elbow at some point, bringing yet more beer to Faerghus’ favorite national pastime.

Well second favorite, Felix supposed, right after wanton slaughter.

Sylvain finished after another moment or two, and Felix barely waited for the tankard to touch the table before swiping the second to last tankard from the center and pouring beer down his throat.

“So, Felix,” Claude said, trying and failing to mask how on edge he was at the fact that Hilda had not yet finished, “is it true that you, ahem, _pleasure _yourself to memories of sparring with the professor?”

Ingrid let off an indecent screech, and Sylvain howled with laughter. But Felix didn’t so much as twitch, continuing to drink the heavy ale with easy force and familiarity. There was a reason he was their closer, after all.

“Wow,” said Hilda, having finally set her tankard down. “He didn’t so much as flinch. Do you think that means it’s true?”

Felix still gave no reaction. Claude was doing his damnedest to make up for lost time, but he wasn’t going to make it, not unless his team could make Felix choke.

Well, there were _two_ reasons why Felix was the closer.

“Hey, Felix,” Raphael began, “I think I want to work on my swordplay. Do you think you could--?”

He cut himself off abruptly when Felix slammed the last tankard on the table, leveling the Golden Deer in a sharp-eyed stare.

Sylvain threw two triumphant fists in the air, and Ingrid let out a very un-Ingrid giggle. Felix maintained his stare until Claude finished a half a minute later, and then said, bluntly, “Where did that rumor come from?”

Claude spoke between huge lungfuls of air. “Made it up; thought it’d get a rise out of you.”

Felix snorted, but Ingrid immediately launched into a lecture: “Claude, that’s so incredibly dangerous! That could be halfway around the monastery by tomorrow. That was so incredibly--”

“Dangerous, yep,” Claude confirmed, winking at Felix as he got up from the table.

“Asshole-ish!” Ingrid said instead.

Felix burst into laughter, to the point that it startled most everyone else at the table--especially the Golden Deer, who weren’t positive they’d ever heard it. He could feel his face turning red and his abdomen crying out from the abuse it had suffered during the fight with Miklan, but he just couldn’t stop. It was just… too much, just too damn much.

“No need…” Felix wheezed. “...to defend my honor.”

“You’re very cute for trying, though,” Sylvain offered in an attempt to be helpful.

"Mmm,” Felix said, not realizing the noise had left his throat until it was too late.

Ingrid’s face blazed scarlet, and just as she opened her mouth to say something back, a cool, feminine voice cut in: “May we play?”

Felix felt his hackles raise when he laid eyes on Edelgard. Something wasn’t right about the Adrestian heir, but he’d never been able to put a finger on it. It felt like she was constantly evaluating everyone, not just as an academic exercise, but as genuine enemies. Plus, Hubert von Vestra clung to her shadow like an illness she couldn't quite shake. Very few things set Felix’s survival sense buzzing quite like that shadowy Imperial mage.

“Well, we just lost,” Claude said, patting Edelgard on the shoulder as he passed, “so go for it.”

“In that case,” Dimitri said, “we’ll be needing more beer.”

“On it!” Claude said. “C’mon, Hilda.”

Hilda’s “Ugh, why are you making me do work?” was nearly lost amidst the growing crowd.

“Do you know the rules?” Sylvain asked as Edelgard seated herself across from him.

“I believe we have things figured out,” Edelgard said crisply.

“It’s hardly complicated,” Hubert added, taking the seat across from Felix. “You’re just drinking and trying not to spill any.”

Sylvain pulled a face, and Ingrid said, “Well, yes, that’s about the gist of it.”

"Sounds like fun!” Caspar said, taking the seat across from Ingrid.

Claude and Hilda reappeared a few minutes later with six fresh tankards, and Dimitri took up position at the head of the table again. “Ingrid, would you kindly?”

Ingrid took up a tankard again, and Caspar quickly did the same. Again, the blonde knight raised her drink to the level of her eyes--“Here’s to my friendship with… well, I’m annoyed with Sylvain right now, so just Felix.”--and began to drink.

“Hey!” Sylvain pouted, his face a completely open book in his drunken state. “If it weren’t for me, you’d never be drunk at all!”

“That’s her point,” Felix pointed out.

“Ingrid,” Edelgard cut in, “I couldn’t help but notice the other day in that mock battle that you’re favoring your right side. You wouldn’t have such an issue if you didn’t leave yourself vulnerable to attack with your sloppy lancework.”

Sylvain’s eyes widened comically, and Ingrid made an angry noise without pausing in drinking.

“You shut your mouth,” Felix growled, just as Caspar slammed down his tankard and Edelgard grabbed hers from the center of the table and tipped her head back with the same elegant decisiveness she used to cleave her enemies in two.

The Black Eagles’ pace slowed down considerably once Caspar was finished (the guy was notorious for inhaling his food, after all), and Sylvain was able to more than match Edelgard’s pacing. He granted Felix the barest of leads before slamming his tankard to the table and declaring, “It’s all up to you, Lixy!”

"_Lixy?” _Hubert asked, venom dripping softly from his tongue.

“It’s what we called Felix when he was little,” Sylvain said, a touch defensively. Without pausing in chugging, Felix slammed a fist into Sylvain’s shoulder. 

“Ow,” the cavalier muttered, rubbing the offending spot.

“He’s going to kill you, you know,” Ingrid said.

“No he won’t; we’ve made it this far.”

Ingrid’s breathing was still ragged, and her hair sticking to her sweaty face and forehead. Felix felt the uncomfortable urge to reach out and smooth it back, and shut his eyes fiercely. _Focus on the ale. _His face was burning. _Come on, Felix; Make your brother proud. You can…_

At that moment, Ingrid let out a particularly ragged gasp and Felix choked on his ale. His recovery wasn’t graceful, but he did manage to avoid sloshing ale down his front.

“Oh?” Hubert said, an eyebrow in his hairline.

Edelgard chose that moment to slam her tankard down, and Hubert reached for the last one and began drinking. Felix finished a moment later, slamming the wooden cup down with excess ferocity.

“If Hubert doesn’t cough, they win,” he heard someone (probably Dimitri) say somewhere behind him.

“It’s okay,” Sylvain said, reaching out to pat Felix’s head and missing spectacularly. “I got this.”

“Oh, goddess,” Ingrid groaned, thumping her head into her hands.

“Hubert, you shouldn’t make fun of Felix,” Sylvain said.

“Off to a rousing start,” Felix grunted.

Sylvain leaned across the table to add, “Not all of us are used to hearing our Lady friends _gasping for air beneath us.”_

And then, by some minor miracle, Hubert’s eyes shot open and he coughed. Ale sloshed over the side of his tankard, spilling a few droplets onto the dark wood of the table.

Sylvain let out a whooping cheer and was already up from the table by the time Hubert had righted himself and finished his drink.

“You will take that back,” Hubert hissed, gasping for air, “you womanizing cur.”

“All’s fair in love and Three Wise Men,” Dimitri said again.

Sylvain had taken off down the aisle between tables, whooping his victory as if they’d won some great battle. Felix reached for Ingrid as the Black Eagles got to their feet, intending to high five her. But was tipsier than he’d given the ale credit for, as he instead missed spectacularly and ended up nearly falling over the bench.

“Felix!” Ingrid was immediately in his personal space, setting him to rights. “You okay?”

He couldn’t look at her, much less answer. 

Sylvain took that moment to slosh into his place between them. “I can’t believe we did it!” He wound an arm around both Felix and Ingrid’s shoulders, and then got distracted trying to look Ingrid in the eye--“You’re too pretty, Ingrid.”--and instead turned to Felix, only to announce, “And _you’re _too pretty, Felix!” 

“You’ve had enough,” Felix growled, hitching his shoulder beneath Sylvain’s arm and trying to shove. 

Sylvain turned to Dimitri, unperturbed and more importantly, unmoved. “I have such pretty friends, Dimitri!”

“Indeed,” Dimitri said, doing his best to stifle his laughter.

“Come on, Sylvain.” Ingrid was also trying to move the big lunk, with about as much success. He had always been the largest of their little band of three, and knew how to throw his weight around when it suited him.

Figuratively _and _literally.

Ferdinand had somehow appeared during the interlude. “Let’s hope the third time’s the charm for you dastards. Or will you run, like your knights?”

“You cur!” Ingrid barked, much to Felix and Sylvain’s surprise. “The Knights of Faerghus don’t back down!”

Claude disappeared to procure another six tankards, and in the interim, Felix was beginning to feel like the world was being compressed to a point just between his eyes. He refused to look at Ingrid--_Glenn’s fucking widow_\--no matter how fetching she looked in her Faerghus furs with determination lighting her face.

_Get out,_ Felix’s survival sense was screaming. _Get out get out get out get out_

It came too little too late.

_“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” _an all-too-familiar voice thundered.

Every single student in the dining hall froze, including Bernedetta, whose bow screeched to halt across the violin’s strings. The abrupt halt to the music left the room feeling strangely, uncomfortably empty. All eyes were on the busted-open door to the dining hall.

None other than Seteth himself stood there, illuminated by moonlight and candlelight at the same time. He was visibly shaking in an effort to contain his fury. “When I agreed to let a party happen this evening, _I did not consent to this!”_

Professor Byleth came into the room then, and then Captain Jeralt, Shamir, and, _oh goddess, no._

“Felix, Felix, Felix,” Sylvain stage-whispered, “is that your dad?”

The swordsman elbowed his friend sharply between the ribs, and Sylvain let off an offended ‘oof!’

“You are an embarrassment to the Officers’ Academy!” Seteth continued. “And _who is responsible _for this depravity?”

_‘Depravity’ is a bit of a strong word for ‘drunken teenagers,’ _Felix couldn’t help but think.

“Got that right,” Sylvain murmured, and Felix, realizing he’d said it out loud, gave up and put his head in his hands.

For a long moment, the whole room just stared at the faculty. And then, in a quiet voice, Claude von Riegan said, “I am.”

Seteth zeroed in on the Wyvern Knight. “Explain yourself. At. _Once.”_

For a long moment, Claude didn’t say anything. Felix wasn’t sure if he was too drunk, or building a case, but his stomach sank further towards the floor with every passing second.

“It was supposed to be just a lighthearted little get-together,” Claude finally said, raising his chin to look Seteth in the eye. “But then we got to thinking that, y’know, if we’re already being deployed to fight and possibly die, then we deserve a drink. And then we looked into it, and the drinking age is seventeen in the Empire, sixteen in the Alliance, and doesn’t exist in Faerghus, so maybe we _could _just.... Y’know… have a beer and relax.”

Claude looked around to his classmates, who were, mercifully, all fully clothed. “I will admit, it got out of hand.”

Something softened in Captain Jeralt’s face, just a hair, and he turned to say something to Byleth and Rodrigue. 

Seteth gave a heavy sigh, and hand raking down his face. “You are students of the Officers Academy of Garreg Mach Monastery,” he said, and at least he had stopped yelling. “You are expected to comport yourselves with the utmost class and composure. Everything you do is a reflection on the church, and on the Archbishop. Surely you understand that this is _not _acceptable behavior?”

“Seteth,” Jeralt cut in unexpectedly, “you can’t force the brats to grow up this fast and not expect them to act like adults.”

“Do you think Catherine doesn’t drink herself into a stupor sometimes?” Shamir added.

For a moment, Seteth’s anger wavered. Felix felt a swell of hope bubble in his throat, and it seemed like, maybe for a moment, they might actually _not _all be doomed.

And then, in the corner, Lysithea--the irksome, youngest-at-the-academy Lysithea--finally threw up, and everything went to shit.

And then Seteth was back to shouting, with Claude was doing his best to diffuse it, and Professor Byleth was making sure Lysithea was okay, and then Jeralt was shooing people out of the dining hall, and then Shamir was helping with Lysithea and Byleth was moving again, and Ingrid was pulling Felix’s head out of his hands and telling him something he couldn't follow in the cacophony of noise and motion.

“Come on, kids.” Captain Jeralt’s voice was somewhere across the table. “It’s time for bed.”

“Felix, I can’t get Sylvain up without you.” Ingrid’s voice was finally distinct. “Please, I need you.”

Felix’s face was on fire again as he sat back up. Carefully, ever-so-carefully, he swung one leg over the bench, and then the other, righting himself with a little (okay, maybe more than a little) help from Ingrid. She left fiery handprints in her wake.

“C’mon, moron,” Felix said, hooking his forearms under Sylvain’s armpits and pulling. “You need sleep more than anyone else here.”

Sylvain didn’t budge. “But we just poured more beer,” he muttered like an annoyed child.

“Were you playing Three Wise Men?” a new voice asked.

Felix froze in place at the sight of his old man, even though he was halfway through the struggle of getting Sylvain to _move._

“Yeah, you wanna play?” said the cavalier.

Felix dropped Sylvain, who landed _hard _on the bench.

“Sylvain, that’s not appropriate,” Dimitri began, only to be silenced by a thoughtful hum from Rodrigue.

“Professor,” he said after a moment, turning to Byleth, “you stress consequences at the Academy, do you not?”

Felix’s fuzzy mind was working a mile a minute, trying to piece together what in the hell he was getting at.

Byleth nodded, blue eyes wide. “Of course.”

“Go to hell, old man,” Felix snarled, but it was too late. Rodrigue had seated himself across from his son, and gestured for Byleth and Jeralt to do the same.

“Let’s play, then,” said Rodrigue sagely. “If they wish to behave as adults, they will deal with the consequences.”

“No nononono.” Ingrid was tripping over her words and Felix found it damn adorable. “Sylvain’s an idiot, Lord Rodrigue, and he really just needs to sleep.”

“Come now, Ingrid,” Rodrigue said as Seteth rounded on their table. “If my boys have become men--”

“Aww, shucks,” Sylvain said, even as Felix growled low in his throat. “We’re related now, Felix!”

“--and my dear girl has become a Knight,” Rodrigue continued as if Sylvain hadn’t spoken, “then what’s a friendly game of Three Wise Men?”

“Lord Rodrigue,” Seteth snapped sharply, “you may be here at the request of Margrave Gautier, but this is _not _appropriate!”

“Seteth,” Rodrigue said as Jeralt began setting up the tankards, “if you would kindly let me parent, I would appreciate it.”

Sylvain dissolved into giggles at the look on Seteth’s face, and even Felix couldn’t hold back a snort.

“If they wish to be considered as adults,” Rodrigue continued, “then they will be.” Speaking around the flabbergasted man, Rodrigue called, “Your Highness, would you kindly judge another round?”

“I, um, suppose?” Dimitri called back, coming back to the head of the table, beside a frowning Seteth. “Ingrid, would you care to do the honors?”

Ingrid raised her third, now-unsteady tankard to the level of her eyes. “I would like it on the record that this is Sylvain’s fault!” 

And she and Professor Byleth began to drink.

“Hey, professor,” Sylvain slurred, “do you think Dimitri is cute? I think you think Dimitri is cute.”

“Sylvain!” the prince shouted, but Byleth remained unperturbed.

“Ingrid,” Rodrigue said lightly, “I received a letter from your father the other day. He’s found a few suitable bachelors for you, and asked that I request you not re-enroll at the Academy this coming semester.”

Felix’s face lit itself on fire, this time with an emotion he knew very well--unadulterated rage. “Shut your mouth, old man!” he barked. “Ingrid is a better knight than _anyone.”_

“If the church had any sense, they’d just hire her now,” Jeralt confirmed, and then Byleth slammed her tankard down and the Captain took one from the center of the table.

Ingrid slammed her tankard down with more force than necessary. “How dare he,” Ingrid snarled as Sylvain tipped his head back and frantically poured ale down his gullet. Felix was so proud of her his chest hurt.

“Sylvain,” Rodrigue continued blithely, “your father sends his regards, and reminds you that any bastards you create are _your _responsibility.”

Sylvain coughed, ale sloshing down his already-soaked uniform shirt. But their minds were no longer on the game, and more on the gut punches Lord Rodrigue felt no shame in throwing. 

“He’s not that dumb!” Ingrid said, looking to Sylvain for confirmation.

The redhead violently nodded as best he could without giving the adults a further lead.

Another moment, and Sylvain slammed his tankard down. Felix picked up the second-to last one with dread pooling in his gut. It rolled and sloshed against the alcohol already in his stomach, threatening to come back up.

“Felix,” Professor Byleth said, since Rodrigue had, by now, gotten nose deep in his own tankard, “your father tells me is very proud of the man you’ve become, but he is concerned with your abrasiveness regarding the knights.”

“Oh, boy,” Sylvain said, burying his head in his hands.

“Professor, stop!” Ingrid said, wildly waving her arms.

Rage coiled in Felix’s stomach, raw and deadly. It mixed with the dread and the alcohol and for a horrible moment, Felix thought he was going to be sick. So he took the initiative, and with the game already a farce, slammed down his half-finished tankard at spat a mouthful of beer across the table.

It landed squarely in the center of Rodrigue’s chest.

The uproar was incredible; Felix had never heard his name shouted from so many places at once, and in so many varying tones. But he kept his eyes fixed on his father, who was taking pains to finish his tankard. 

“So long as I die like a true knight,” Felix hissed, violently pushing away from the table, “what the fuck does he care what I think?”

“Felix Fraldarius!” Seteth barked. “That is _not _how one addresses one’s professors, let alone one’s father!”

Felix dropped into a clumsy bow--”With all due respect, of course, _my lord father.”_\--and bolted out of the nearest door.

The night air rushed over him, cool and biting. It settled over his flushed face and brought him a moment of clarity: _that’s it, you’re doomed. _He pelted down the stairs to the pond, taking them two at a time, bile rising in his throat. 

He found a corner behind the greenhouse to finally vomit, away from prying eyes and the inevitable hunting party. He made himself small, as small as he could, against the back wall of the greenhouse. And Felix, with every last ounce of clarity in his bruised, drunken body, tried to make himself silent.

“Felix!” he heard his father call at some point. “Felix, _please.”_

He turned away from his name, curling further in on himself. He felt something hot and wet on his face, and buried his head further in his arms and knees. His shoulders were shaking and his stomach was rolling and he felt the driving urge to break something, like he had the night he learned Glenn had died.

“He can’t have gotten far.” Professor Byleth’s voice came now, much flatter and calmer. 

“He doesn't need to,” Rodrigue pointed out, and then sighed. “I only meant to give them hangovers to deal with in the morning.” He sounded exasperated. “Felix really is a good kid, professor--well, a good man, now. He’s just… odd.”

“I don’t find him odd at all,” Byleth said, her voice now drawing uncomfortably close to Felix’s hiding spot. 

Surprise colored Rodrigue’s voice. “Oh?”

“It’s only wounded creatures who lash out,” Byleth said.

“Wounded?” For a moment, Felix felt a bubble of hope in his throat. “Was he injured in that last battle?”

Never mind, it was more vomit. 

“I think he was wounded a long time ago, Rodrigue,” said Byleth, somehow _not _hearing him retch. “And now they’re all scabs, and they’re not healing.”

“I know he took Glenn’s death particularly hard,” Rodrigue said with a sigh. “All three of them did--Sylvain, Ingrid, and Felix. But he really did die like a true knight, defending his king and country. It’s the death he would have wanted.”

“But not the one they did,” Byleth said, her voice mercifully now moving away from Felix’s hiding spot.

His head was spinning, and it felt like his consciousness was being pulled out of his forehead at a point directly between his eyes. His head hurt and his body hurt and his heart hurt and he just needed _space._

The goddess, however, was not kind.

“There you are,” said a quiet, far kinder voice.

He raised his head, just a fraction of an inch, and met a green-eyed stare, looking at him which such concern that he drove the air out of his lungs.

“No no nonono,” Felix mumbled. He was not in the right state of mind to be talking to Ingrid Galatea, of all people, right now.

“Come on,” Ingrid said gently, using her handkerchief to wipe at the dribble trailing down Felix’s chin. “The professor is covering for you while Sylvain and I find you.”

Felix violently shook his head, trying to dislodge her hand from his face and the lump from his throat. He felt his hair tie finally give out, sending his oh-so-Fraldarius raven-black hair tumbling down his shoulders. “You can’t be nice to me,” Felix managed. 

Ingrid shot him a _look _that was just so Ingrid that Felix’s heart burst. “Felix,” she said, “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I’ve heard you snap at people before, and probably will again tomorrow morning when you remember I’m helping you now.”

“But I’m not _Glenn,” _Felix tried to impress upon her, “no matter how much I look like him.”

“I know,” Ingrid said softly, picking up his hair tie from the ground. “You’re you.”

That stunned him--_You’re you, _she’d said. _You’re you.--_so much so that he didn’t fight when she began running her hands through his hair, pulling the wayward strands into something resembling a bun.

“You don’t have to be anything he was,” she continued, wetness glittering in the corners of her eyes, now. “You don’t have to be a knight; you don’t have to be abrasive; you don’t have to be friends with Dimitri; you just have to be _you.”_

His ruptured heart stopped when she took her hands out of his hair, and instead put them to his face. “I know you know how.”

_Does she know? _he wondered. _Does she know what she’s doing to me?_

It seemed she did, because Ingrid embarrassedly took her hands back with sudden force. “Let’s find Sylvain,” she said, getting to her feet and extending a hand.

And Felix--little, angry, second son Felix--took it. She hoisted him to his feet, shouldering his drunken bulk with a steadying arm about his waist. He tested his luck, looping an arm around her shoulders. He was sure his relief was palpable when she didn’t shake him off, like she did with Sylvain. 

“Hey, Ingrid?” Felix said after he found his bearings. “I don’t care how noble you think you are; you’re not allowed to die on me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” She squeezed his waist, just a little. “There would be no one to wrangle you and Sylvain, if I did.”

He gave a hoarse laugh, and she returned with a smile more radiant than the goddess herself. “Where is he, anyway?” 

“I went right and he went left,” Ingrid said, “so he should be somewhere around here?”

As they rounded on the stairs to the entrance hall, Felix spotted someone gesticulating wildly, trying to tell the gatekeeper something important, he was sure._ What an idiot. _Upon coming closer, however, Felix began to make out details in the darkness--chief among them fiery red hair.

_Oh no, that’s _our _idiot._

“Sylvain!” Felix called out, his voice hoarse.

Sylvain glanced about this way and that almost comically, but he stopped dead when he caught sight of Felix and Ingrid. It lasted barely a moment before Sylvain took off running, crashing into them with the force of a raging charger. 

Sylvain enveloped the both of them in a fierce hug, cracking Felix’s spine in several places and burying his head in Ingrid’s hair. “I lost you,” he mumbled.

“I told you we’d find him,” Ingrid said, patting Sylvain’s ribs in an attempt to make him let go.

“No, no, I _lost _you,” Sylvain slurred. “I can’t lose you--either of you.”

“You do it all the time,” Felix pointed out, his mind wandering to the many, many times Sylvain had apparently spent an entire afternoon looking for him or Ingrid, only to find one or both in the training grounds.

“Sylvain, we’re right here,” Ingrid said, far more gently.

“Don’t leave me alone with him.” Was Sylvain… begging them? “Please, guys, you can’t leave me alone.”

“With whom,” Felix said, “the gatekeeper?”

Sylvain drew his friends in tighter to his chest. _“Miklan.” _

All at once, Felix was reminded of the awful black beast Sylvain’s older brother had become, and the one he had always been. When Sylvain was eight, Miklan had shoved him down a well and left him there, only to have Glenn discover the younger Gautier brother hours later by his screaming. When they were ten, Felix had come across Miklan choking the daylights out of Sylvain, tried to pull the older boy off his friend, and gotten the shit kicked out of him for it. Sylvain had a ring of bruises around his neck for days.

And that was before the Lance of Ruin had, well, ruined him.

“We won’t,” Ingrid promised, squeezing back.

“We’re right here,” Felix added.

He was loath to let go of Ingrid, but he also knew he needed to get Sylvain moving or they’d be standing out here all night. Felix took up position on Sylvain’s left, shouldering the taller not-quite-boy, not-yet-man under his armpit. Ingrid followed suit, taking up the same position at Sylvain’s right. Her calloused hand touched Felix’s as they drew Sylvain upright, and that was how the three of them made it back to the dorms. 

Together. 

**Author's Note:**

> There was a tragic lack of drunken shenanigans in this fandom, and I had to fix that.
> 
> come hang out with me on twitter @madshatter1 for more shenanigans!


End file.
